A Pleasant Torture
by sonicwatson
Summary: 1st person, set after the Reichenbach Fall. John becomes friends with Greg Lestrade as he tries to get over Sherlock. Probably slash/pre-slash.
1. Chapter 1

I went to my therapist twice. Once very soon after the incident at Bart's- that was an unproductive session. I sat and tried not to cry much and she asked me a question every several minutes that I hardly ever answered.

The second time was a few weeks after. She was pressing me, asking me for specifics, what I saw, what I did, how it felt. I got angry after a while. I lashed out at her, yelled at her for nearly half an hour. She might have seen it as progress. I'll probably never know. I left as soon as I ran out of things to say.

I went back to 221B Baker Street a few days after that happened. It was the first time since Bart's. Mrs. Hudson enticed me over. She made tea for me, left it in the flat so I could sit for a minute. The sitting room was filled with boxes of things. She'd labeled some of them, as best she could. _Science._ I assume those were the contents of our kitchen, the various beakers and vials and contraptions that always covered the little table. _Clothes._ I tried not to think about that one. _Books._ Well, that one was a no-brainer.

Others were unlabeled. I wasn't sure whether she couldn't figure out what to call them or she had just given up on doing any more labeling. I didn't look to find out. My legs felt shaky, so I made my way to one of the armchairs and sat down.

Being back at the flat was too familiar and too unnatural at once. I wanted to go up to my bedroom and curl up and close my eyes and never open them again, but I didn't think I could make it up the stairs. I wasn't even sure if I could stand up from the armchair.

I sat there for hours, just staring at the walls and trying to keep my mind blank. There were too many memories. They were crushing me. I felt constantly as if Sherlock were just behind me: experimenting on human hair in the kitchen, maybe, or sitting at the desk in front of my laptop. I never looked around to check the feeling.

At some point Mrs. Hudson came up to check on me. She looked quite concerned to see me there, sitting in the armchair, still and silent.

"Are you alright?" she asked, and I nodded, because my lips felt too heavy to lift.

She took the cold tea from in front of me when she left.

Mrs. Hudson came back probably an hour later and gently told me that I should be going. It wasn't that she didn't want me there, it was that she was truly concerned about me, sitting there in that chair alone staring at the walls. I did go. I stood, surprised that it was still possible, and I thanked her, because I, unlike Sherlock, still did understand and feel bound by societal norms.

I didn't go back to my flat. I went to a pub, the little dark one just a few blocks away from Baker Street. I'd only been in there once, and I hadn't drunk anything. I don't make a habit of drinking much in general, except for a glass of wine sometimes in the evening. Sherlock probably had this deduced about me before I even moved in- after all, the reason I don't over-drink is that I grew up with Harry. I covered for her since she first staggered home drunk at fourteen- I was ten at the time- and I watched her increasingly frequent bouts of drunkenness as I grew up.

I ordered a beer-a 6.5%, their strongest- and stared at the football match on the telly in the corner. When I'd finished the first bear, I ordered another. I was beginning to feel relaxed, loose. The familiar ache in my chest was strong, but not as unpleasant, a warm, weighty thing, an almost agreeable torture. I started the second beer. _I'll stop here,_ I thought, _two beers is enough._ I thought of Harry and took a large gulp. Holding her up, one of her arms draped over my shoulders, her weight slumped against me.

"I'm not _drunk_, John," she'd say, as if I'd asked, and giggle. Sometimes she'd pass out, there, as I dragged her past our parents bedroom, up the stairs, into her room. I'd get her onto her bed somehow, though she was taller and heavier than I was. In the morning I'd go downstairs to my parents and breakfast and assure them that Harry was fine, just sleeping in.

I'd been the one who took care of drunken Harry all through my adolescence and god, did I resent her for it. I almost laughed aloud, strangely amused by the irony of sitting drinking in a pub and pondering on how much I'd begrudged Harry the same thing. I took a swallow of the beer in front of me, then rested my head on one hand and sighed. _What am I doing here? _I thought. _I should go._ My beer was almost finished anyhow.

"John?" _Shit._ I looked up to see Greg Lestrade, looking trim in work clothes. _Is it that late already?_

The last time I had actually spoken with Lestrade, Sherlock had been standing a few feet away. The ache in my chest swelled painfully, and the alcohol loosened my tongue.

"Christ," I said quietly.

He came and sat beside me, chuckling slightly.

"Hello to you too," he said, smiling. I rubbed a hand across my eyes.

"Sorry, Greg. Hello."_ That was terribly rude of me._ I found I didn't much care.

"What are you drinking?" he asked. I tilted my beer onto one edge of its base and stared at it as if it could tell me.

"Er. That one." I said after a second, pointing at the list on the blackboard. Lestrade ordered the same, sipped off the two centimeter layer of foam at the top. He was frowning at me.

"John, are you alright?" he asked.

I picked up my beer and drained it. _Do you really want me to answer that?_ He wasn't saying anything, so I had to assume it wasn't rhetorical. _What the hell._ I motioned the bartender for another beer, then turned to Lestrade.

"How do you mean, alright?" I asked flatly. He made a face.

"I guess I mean, how are you holding up?" he said after a minute.

I took a swig of the new beer the bartender had just set down in front of me. _How am I holding up?_ I didn't know the answer to that one myself.

"I'm alive." I said after a moment's thought.

Lestrade snorted.

"Well, shit," he said drily. "That bad?"

I didn't respond. My alcohol tolerance is fairly low, and I'd had enough by now to free me from feeling any obligation to be polite or conversational.

Lestrade was watching me ponderingly.

"John," he said after a pause, "do you think Sherlock- what I mean to say is-" He stopped. He wasn't looking at me, but instead gazing at his beer. I stiffened, suddenly alert, waiting on edge for the end of that question.

"Do I think Sherlock _what_?" My voice was cutting, more so than I'd been trying to make it. I had a feeling about what was coming next. My tolerance level for doubts about Sherlock's authenticity was very, very low. Lestrade was looking at me with alarm, clearly noting my sudden hostility.

"Well," he started carefully, "that last little while, there were all those rumors flying about. I wondered if you really think that Sherlock-"

I was on my feet, pulse thundering in my veins. My jaw was clenched, my fists balled at my sides. Lestrade stood too, holding up his hands.

"Hey," he said appeasingly. "John. Take it easy." I didn't budge. "John," Lestrade said, as if he were talking to a small, upset child. Or maybe a small, upset child holding a gun. "I don't believe Sherlock was a fraud. Is that what's worrying you?"

_Worrying? Are you sure that's the right verb here? I don't feel very worried. As a matter of fact, I think I'd like to punch you in the face. I hit the Chief Superintendent and got away with it. What do you think they'd do to me if I flattened the Detective Inspector?_

Then the rest of what he'd said sank in, and I relaxed simply out of surprise.

"Oh," I said, bewildered. "Then what were you saying?"

He bit his lip, frowning. "It's just that, well, jumping off a building?" He looked quickly at me, as if making sure he hadn't over-stepped, before continuing. "I mean, it doesn't really seem like a very_ Sherlock_ thing to do."

Too many emotions were racing through me for me to answer right away. Relief, that Lestrade believed that Sherlock wasn't a fake, guilt, for thinking he did and preparing to punch him. I was disoriented by the alcohol rushing through my veins and struck by the question and the memories it brought.

I sat back down heavily on the barstool. My heart was thudding painfully in my chest. I'd been doing my best to avoid this topic even in my own thoughts. I cleared my throat awkwardly, stared at my beer, remembered what it was there for and took a sip.

"Ehm," I started, trying to control my voice, "no, it didn't seem very like Sherlock." My voice broke slightly on the last word.

_What does it matter?_ I wanted to scream. _What does anything matter? He's dead, I was there, I saw it happen. I took his pulse, I saw his face, I saw the blood. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Oh, god. _I picked up my beer in a hand that trembled violently and drank until I had to stop to breathe.

After that all my control was gone.

"I'll have another!" I called to the bartender. By the time my 4th beer arrived, my head was resting on the bar. I stared up at Lestrade blankly. Painful memories were pouring through my head. I felt like a child- there was no check, no restraint on my thoughts and emotions. I picked up my head to receive the fresh beer, took a gulp.

"This stuff's great," I said, smacking my lips. Lestrade was watching me carefully, face full of concern.

"John, are you feeling alright?" he asked.

I turned to face him, not lifting my head from where I'd rested it, cheek crushed into my palm.

"I haven't been this pissed since university." My tongue felt swollen and sluggish. I started laughing- was I laughing? Maybe crying. Oh, Jesus, was I crying? _I'm a maudlin drunk. Who'd have guessed? Probably Sherlock. Shit._

More beer.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up in an unfamiliar room with pale green walls and ceiling. My head felt like it had endured multiple blows from a sledgehammer, and my mouth and throat seemed to have grown a coat of fur. I looked around as much as possible without jarring my poor head, then carefully levered myself to a sitting position. I groaned at a sudden wave of nausea.

"John, you're up."

I turned my head carefully towards the voice. Greg Lestrade sat at a small table in front of a mug of coffee and two pieces of toast. I frowned blearily, rubbed my eyes. _Have I just spent the night at the Detective Inspector's house?_ I pushed myself to my feet, then grabbed the arm of the sofa to steady myself.

"Oh, god," I groaned. Lestrade smiled sympathetically at me.

"Come have coffee," he offered.

He stood and poured a second mug, then placed it in front of the empty chair across the table from him. The thought of ingesting anything made my stomach churn, but there was always a chance that coffee would help the headache. I staggered to the table and sank down onto the waiting chair. I took the milk Lestrade offered, poured a bit into the coffee, and took a sip. It was good coffee, and I was relieved to find that I would be able to hold it down.

"Bit of a lightweight, aren't you?" Lestrade was smiling teasingly at me. "It was only a few beers," he added.

"Four beers," I corrected, "strong ones." Lestrade laughed aloud.

"Ex-army doctor," he said musingly. "I dunno, guess I would have expected you to be hold your liquor a bit better." I returned his smile. It did seem a little incongruous.

"Look," I said after another sip of coffee, "Last night..."

I remembered a surprising amount of the evening, considering how I was feeling the morning after. Lestrade chuckled at my opening.

"You were in a state," he said. "Reminds me of-" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes flicking to my face, expression wary.

As a member of the Yard, I was sure Lestrade had escorted his share of inebriates to various places, but none of those memories would be sensitive enough to make him stop mid-sentence and glance apprehensively at me like that. No, I knew exactly what he was thinking about. I massaged my forehead with my fingertips. The memory seemed to engulf me.

I carried Sherlock out, after Irene Adler left. I'd examined him briefly, not entirely trustful of the assurances Irene had offered. His heart and breathing rates were slow, but not dangerously slow, and he didn't seem to be otherwise injured. I knelt and lifted him- he was unhealthily light, and I brought him easily with me as I stood. I'd had plenty of practice with this.

Police were arriving, apparently responding to Sherlock's unconventional summons, by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs. Lestrade was there as well, presumably on Mycroft's directive. He managed to slip us away despite the best efforts of several police and paramedics who were trying to pry Sherlock from my arms. I piled Sherlock, who was half asleep and half awake and babbling, into the backseat of Lestrade's waiting car with me, and we set off, once Lestrade had had a chance to get a video of Sherlock, delirious and incoherent.

When we arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock was alert enough to insist on being allowed out of the car on his own. I got out on the opposite side and ran around the car just in the nick of time to catch my drugged friend as he stumbled out of the car and plunged face-first toward the asphalt. I hauled him to his feet, slinging one of his arms over my shoulder.

As I dragged him towards the door, I noticed that our little spectacle had drawn an audience. Anderson was standing a few feet away, mobile out, videoing Sherlock and I as we stumbled hazardously towards 221B. I felt a flash of annoyance, then brushed it away. Anderson deserved a chance to get back at Sherlock, who frequently got away with insulting the man in front of his colleagues. _Even if Anderson is an irritating, self-absorbed little git._

Once we were inside, I realized I was going to have to pick Sherlock up again. He was no help at all at the moment, and there was no way I was going to lug him up seventeen stairs in this position. I entertained the thought of going back outside and getting Lestrade to help me, but I thought of Anderson and dismissed it quickly. _I can do this, easy_.

Reaching down, I lifted Sherlock's legs under his knees, then started up the stairs, stopping to rest against the wall at intervals. He mumbled a stream of random, half-audible nonsense as we proceeded. I carried him all the way to his room, set him down on the bed, pulled his shoes off of him and covered him with the sheet. Sherlock had stopped mumbling by now to stare at me bemusedly, as if trying to fathom what I was doing or perhaps what was going on. I laughed.

"Just go to sleep, Sherlock," I told him. "You'll be fine in the morning." He stared at me for a moment more, then obediently closed his eyes. I leaned over him to tuck the blanket around him more securely. When I straightened up, I stayed standing there for a moment, looking down at the figure on the bed. It was almost surreal, seeing Sherlock, all defenses down, lying drugged and asleep in bed.

"John." I glanced up into Lestrade's worried face, realizing suddenly that I must have been sitting there for several minutes staring blankly at my coffee. I sucked in a breath that was almost painful, as if the air was thick with tiny sharp particles.

"Sorry," I said to Lestrade, not looking up at him. He was silent for a moment, and I could only imagine what he was thinking. _Three guesses says he's amazed by how screwed up I am._

"Come on," he said after a moment, "I'll give you a lift home on my way in."

When we pulled up at my flat, instead of letting the engine idle as I got out, Lestrade cut the engine and turned to face me, looking rather upset.

"John, it doesn't seem like you're doing too well," he said.

If I'd felt any better, I'd probably have snorted. _You think?_ But I was far enough gone on that spectrum that hearing his assessment was just depressing. I stared down at my hands, feeling pitiful. Lestrade sighed.

"Look, if there's _anything_ I can do... I really mean it. It doesn't feel right, leaving you here like this. Why don't you give me a call, when you're feeling a bit better?"

I'd been so sunk in my melancholy that I'd almost forgotten about my hangover, but now that I noticed it, it was back full force. I opened my mouth to politely avoid Lestrade's request, but he spoke again before I could.

"No, you know what, never mind, I know you're not going to call. Let's just- why don't you come over for dinner on Friday? If you're not busy." I racked my brain for an easy excuse, but I seemed to have lost my ability to improvise.

"Great. I'll pick you up here at seven. No excuses, John." Lestrade started his car again. I picked up my coat and folded it over my arm as I opened the door. "Thank you," I said before I left, "for last night." Lestrade smiled, looking almost relieved that I was still capable of basic social function.

"Any time, John, really. You have my mobile number if you need anything."

_I'm lucky, _I thought, as I watched him drive off. _I didn't know I had such a friend there._


	3. Chapter 3

There was a piano in Lestrade's flat. I guess I hadn't seen it in my malaise of a few days previously, but it was quite a feature of the room, a pretty little shiny black upright. Lestrade had run out to the store to grab some spice or other and left me to watch the stove for a few minutes. It was the first time I'd been alone in a room with a piano in ages, and I found myself inching over to try it out. I'd played as a kid, all the way through upper school, but had stopped in university mainly for reasons of practicality. I'd only played once or twice in all the time since then.

The keys felt soothing and familiar under my fingers. It was all so ordered, the tidy structure of steps and half-steps, the static patterns of white and black keys. I played a simple chromatic scale up most of the keyboard and smiled. I moved on, a C-scale just with my left hand, then with both. Then I tried to play some actual music. Fur Elise- that one was widely enough played that I thought I could probably sound any of it that I didn't remember out. My piano teacher had always told me that I had an good ear.

Once I'd found the right hand position and begun, I slipped easily into playing it. My fingers seemed to know it better than my conscious, so I tried not to over think it and just let my muscle memory lead me through the piece.

The whole thing brought Sherlock forcefully to mind, like I was there in the sitting room at 221B listening to his violin, but for once the memory of him was not as much painful as pleasant. Sitting there at the piano made me feel almost connected to him, as though it was his playing, his fingers stroking music out of the smooth keys. Sherlock had nice hands, I reflected, long and slender like the rest of him, likely good for playing instruments of all sorts.

I was there playing when Lestrade got back- I was so absorbed that I didn't notice him come in at first. I finished the piece, rolling the last chord up from the lowest note to the highest, then gave a little sigh of satisfaction as I lifted my hands from the keyboard. Lestrade began to clap behind me; I jumped, turning quickly to face him.

"I didn't know you played," he said, in a tone of pleasant surprise. I smiled, slightly embarrassed.

"Yeah, I'd almost forgotten myself," I admitted. "Do you?" Lestrade shook his head.

"It was my mum's. She used to play when I was a kid. Tried to teach me once, but, well, I was more interested in football at the time," Lestrade replied ruefully. "When did you learn?" he asked me. I rubbed a hand across my cheek.

"I had lessons when I was a kid. Haven't had a piano since I lived at home, but- well, it's nice, playing," I told him.

Lestrade was looking at me strangely.

"Did Sherlock know?" he asked, and his voice was not so cautious as it usually was when he mentioned Sherlock. Somehow, hearing his name was not as painful as it usually was.

"Er- I don't know. I don't think I ever told him, but, you know." I shrugged, and Lestrade nodded.

"Yeah, you'd never really know with him, would you?" he agreed with a chuckle.

After that, the atmosphere in the room seemed to have relaxed somehow. Lestrade had made a simple, surprisingly good meal, a three part supper of white beans in vinegar, cooked greens, and creamy polenta. We managed to find enough to talk about to sustain a comfortable level of chatter through the meal, and when we were finished, we went back over to the piano, where I, feeling full and sedate, managed to pick out a few more old tunes.

Of course, emotional trauma like the one I'd experienced does not go away in a moment, but over a long period of time, and that night I dreamt of Sherlock.

I was standing in front of Bart's, staring up to the roof where he stood. My phone was pressed to my ear, and Sherlock was talking to me through it, but I couldn't speak back, my lips were too heavy to lift.

"Goodbye, John." The phone slipped from my hand- now I was trying to move my feet, but I couldn't, and all at once I realized that my eyes were closed, and I couldn't open them, and I knew that just behind them Sherlock was falling through the air, and I couldn't move, I couldn't see, I couldn't even breathe anymore.

I woke up to discover that I'd pressed my face into a pile of disheveled covers and the thick cloth covering my mouth and nose was restricting my airflow. I sat up quickly. My eyes were open now, but an image of Sherlock seemed to be emblazoned across my vision, a Sherlock bleeding and unmoving on the pavement, blue eyes open and staring blindly. I was shaking, and I could feel wetness across my cheeks.

After a minute I swung my legs over the side of the bed and slid to my feet, taking a blanket from the bed and pulling it around me. I shuffled out into the tiny sitting room, glanced at the clock on the wall. It was two- thirty in the morning. I'd been asleep for less than four hours. I pushed open the curtains, letting the dim yellow glow of the streetlights filter through into the flat.

I curled up on the couch, knees drawn up, feet tucked under the blanket. I stared across at the blank wall, and an image of the mantle at 221B flashed across my mind, skull placed at the far left, two bookshelves flanking the fireplace, filled with a mess of books and random objects, disheveled, chaotic.

Sherlock sitting in an armchair in front of it, staring out the window, deep concentration evidenced by his expression, violin across his chest, propped against his shoulder, plucking out short, truncated chords.

A squeezing around my chest, suffocating. I sucked in a breath that shuddered through my lungs. Here in the dark, alone, the ache of missing Sherlock was agony.

_"As a conductor of light, you are unbeatable."_

At the time, I'd been annoyed to hear it, but like all of Sherlock's deductions, it was spot on. Without him, without the constant thrill of working by his side, the high of chasing criminals and watching him solve mysteries, I was dark and forlorn, a lantern unlit, a star that had ceased to burn.

I sat there on the couch for hours, sometimes crying, sometimes dozing, sometimes staring out the window at the streetlights and thinking of painful things.

At five o'clock, I got up, made coffee, opened my computer, and began to write.

_Grief is selfish. _I wrote, thinking, of course, of my own.

_It's overtaking, a thing to wallow in, a miasma of self-pity and egoism. _I stopped, reread the sentence I'd just written. How morbid. Obviously I had some suppressed emotions there. Maybe I ought to go back to my therapist. Or maybe writing it down was just as worthwhile.

_Sherlock,_ Oh, was I writing to Sherlock now?

_I wonder sometimes, what you would have done if we were reversed, if it was me lying under a black marble gravestone instead of you. What you would be doing now. I honestly don't know, Sherlock. I've never seen you really grieve, not even for Irene Adler, though there was something there that I never really understood._

That was unclear, but it didn't matter, I wasn't writing this for anyone to read.

_You said you were a sociopath. If that's true- and I don't know that that's something you would lie about- then one would assume that you wouldn't grieve, that you wouldn't care enough. But I don't think so. I don't think that was _you_, Sherlock, somehow. _

My eyes were filling. I wiped them on the shoulder of my t-shirt and kept writing.

_One of the qualities of a sociopath is the inability to feel love. And that wasn't you. That wasn't you, Sherlock, I know it wasn't, because I knew you, and you did love. Absolutely. Love cannot be wholly explained by the instinct to procreate and propagate our species. It's easy to take that and explain the love between a mother and a child. But how about the love between a grown child and their mother? How about the love that you had for Mrs. Hudson?_

And here I was, gone from exploring grief to trying to convince an imaginary Sherlock that he wasn't a sociopath.

_I know you loved Mrs. Hudson, that you'd have done practically anything to protect her. That's the essence of love, Sherlock, a bond strong enough that you'd put yourself in harm's way to keep the person you love safe. And that's how I know that you loved me too, and no, not necessarily romantically. That time at the pool, when I came in, wrapped in explosives, parroting Jim Moriarty through a headset. For those first few moments, when you believed I was Moriarty, you stared at me, and I could read your face, and I wanted to tell you, _no, no, it's not me, Sherlock, no,_ because betrayal and hurt were all over your face. That's what love is, Sherlock, an odd mental state that overrides our basic psyche and changes our response to danger. You, Sherlock, you of massive intellect and inflated ego, if you didn't love me, your first reaction would have been incredulity. How could I, John Watson, ordinary idiot, have tricked you? And then when you had the chance, when we first thought we were safe, you ran over to get me out of the Semtex vest, and you were frightened. You had that thing halfway across the room almost before I realized you were pulling it off me. The way you asked me if I was alright- your voice, just then- I could tell you'd been really scared. Maybe that's why you never got close to more than a few people, because you couldn't handle that level of vulnerability, and that's okay. But damn whatever psychologist that told you you were a sociopath, Sherlock. I don't believe it._

Now the tears on my cheeks were hot and angry. _How dare anyone tell Sherlock he was a sociopath, _I thought, suddenly indignant. _How dare they._

It also felt rather odd to be using the word love in the context of the relationship Sherlock and I had shared, but friendship seemed too simple a word to describe it, to explain what it had done to me when he died.

I rested my hands back on the keyboard, but I couldn't think what else to write.

_I miss you, Sherlock, _I added to the bottom after a minute. Then I saved it to a file that I never looked at and closed my computer, squaring my shoulders and taking a deep breath.

I got up, made another cup of coffee and got dressed. I wasn't sure what I was doing yet, I just knew I had to get out of the dingy little flat. I took my coffee and left, just walking, down the still-dark streets. I walked until the sun came up, then kept walking, just wandering, watching London come alive. It was ten o'clock when I stopped in front of 221B Baker Street. I'd barely known I was heading there until I looked up at the bronze characters on the black door in front of me. I took a deep breath and knocked.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, looking bemused to see me standing there. "Hello, John," she said, a little guardedly. I smiled to reassure her.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. I was just in the area, and I thought I'd stop by and apologize about- er- Tuesday, was it?" Mrs. Hudson smiled at me, looking rather relieved.

"Oh, there's no need, my love," she said, opening the door more widely, "do come in, won't you?"

I followed her through the door and into the little kitchen. There was a kettle on the stove, almost boiling. Mrs. Hudson motioned towards a chair and I sat, thanking her.

"I was just doing tea," Mrs. Hudson explained. "Would you like a cup?"

"Yeah, please." I hadn't spent a lot of time in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen before; when I had lived at 221B with Sherlock, most of our interaction with our motherly landlady had gone on upstairs in our own flat. I found that being in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen was just about the right level of nostalgia; the constant lack of Sherlock's presence was just tolerable.

Mrs. Hudson set down a teapot full of steeping tea and two teacups, along with a homely creamer of milk and a small sugar pot. She sat down across from me and reached one hand across the table to rest atop mine.

"Oh, I have missed you," Mrs. Hudson said affectionately. "It's awfully quiet around here these days." She gave my hand a brief squeeze, then reached over to check the tea. "Would you like some biscuits?" she asked.

"Please, don't trouble yourself on my account," I replied. She waved a hand as if she was batting my answer aside.

"Oh, nonsense. I think I'd like a biscuit myself." Mrs. Hudson stood and pulled a tin from one of the cabinets, then piled a plate with an assortment of homemade goodies.

Once she'd poured the tea and prepared it appropriately, Mrs. Hudson settled back down and looked at me again. "Now," she said, "have you come for something upstairs?"

I shook my head. "No, I think I'll wait a little before I go back there. I just came by to see you."

Mrs. Hudson looked pleased. "Oh, you _are_ a dear, John." She smiled. "You come by any time you like." She paused a moment, then added, "If you ever need a place to- well, you know the flat will always be open for you."

I inclined my head. "That's very kind of you, but... don't do that just for me. If you find a renter..."

She was smiling a little sadly. "Oh, I'm too old to have new people running about up there," she said dismissively.

I thought of coming home to gunfire, racing up the stairs to see what was going on, finding Sherlock shooting holes into Mrs. Hudson's wall. _Bored! _A familiar aching filled my chest. I smiled painfully. Maybe we'd given Mrs. Hudson the wrong impression of how normal tenants acted.

When the tea was finished, I stood to go. Mrs. Hudson walked me to the door and said goodbye, enjoining me to visit again soon. I left feeling good. I was moving on, just by little steps, not leaving Sherlock behind but learning how to carry him with me as I slowly let go of at least some of my grief.


	4. Chapter 4

The one-month anniversary of Sherlock's death came three days later. I tried to tell myself that it was silly to fix on that day, that it was just like any other day, only one more day since Sherlock had jumped, but it was useless. The calendar on the wall seemed to be taunting me, the small black twelve in the corner of that day's square a stab in my aching chest.

I woke up early that morning from a dream that, like most of my dreams those days, took place outside Bart's Hospital. I had watched Sherlock jump, fall; as usual, I had not seen him hit the ground. In this particular dream, I had run to see him, and there had been no crowd of paramedics and civilians surrounding his body. I had been able to go straight to him; I had fallen to my knees there on the pavement next to him. Felt for a pulse even though I knew there was none. Then I had collapsed beside him, lying down, curled up into his still-warm coat, his blood sticky in my hair from where I had laid my head.

It wasn't a particularly terrible dream, as they went, but it was quite upsetting all the same, and, worse, I when I awoke, I felt a brief flash of relief, thinking for a moment that I was back at 221B, that Sherlock was asleep- or maybe up thinking- just a few metres away. Then I took in what I could of my dreary little room in the early morning darkness, feeling a sudden crushing sort of hopelessness.

I curled up on my side, bringing my knees to my chest like a child. I didn't stop the tears when they came, but let myself cry there, in the dark silence, protected and alone.

I got up maybe an hour after that, showered, dressed, made coffee. I sat at the table in front of the mug of steaming liquid feeling strangely drained, and lifeless. The ticking of the clock on the wall was deafening in the otherwise silent room. I had a sudden bleak revelation that whatever I did with the rest of my life, nothing would ever compare with the excitement of running after Sherlock Holmes. I rested my head in my hands. _I'll always miss him, and it'll never be the same again._

Somehow I made it through that morning and afternoon, which seemed to drag on for much longer than usual, without any more emotional breakdowns. In a well-timed stroke of goodwill, Greg Lestrade arrived at the door early that evening with a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine.

I didn't answer the knocking at first, but after a few minutes, he yelled, "I know you're in there, John Watson," and then, "for god's sake open this door or I'll go get a warrant to break in the hard way."

When I finally did open the door, Greg gave no attention to my lukewarm welcome and smiled widely at me.

"I'm glad you _are_ here," he said lightly, "would have been a bit embarrassing to call in my DI privileges just to find out you weren't home."

I had to smile at his casual assurance of his earlier threat. "Come in, then," I said, opening the door a little wider.

When he had come past me and set the groceries on the table, he looked appraisingly around the flat. "It's a bit bare in here, isn't it?" he said, tone skeptical. I shrugged, and walked over to stand across the table.

"So what _are_ you doing here?" I asked.

Lestrade looked more serious. "John, I know what today is," he said meaningfully. I raised a hand slightly to object, but he shook his head, looking down as if to dismiss my reaction. "No, John, I've lost people myself. Don't try to tell me it doesn't matter, because I know it does."

I bit my lip and avoided his gaze, but didn't protest.

After a moment Greg picked up the bottle of wine. "Corkscrew?" he asked.

I pointed. "Top drawer."

He opened the bottle, located wineglasses, and poured two generous glassfuls, then held up his own.

"To Sherlock," he said quietly. I raised my glass slowly, let it touch his so gently that the small _clink_ was barely audible. I almost repeated his toast, but changed my mind, too unsure of what control I had over my voice, and simply gave a small nod.

It was good wine, a Burgundy, dry and earthy. By the time I'd finished my first glass, I felt much more relaxed, and thankfully less wont to break down emotionally. Lestrade had brought a frozen pizza, with an obviously unnecessary apology for his lack of creativity, and lettuce for a salad. We made a simple vinaigrette to dress it, put the pizza in the oven, and sat there talking about things unrelated to Sherlock over salad and wine and the smell of melting cheese.

It wasn't until an hour or so after dinner that Sherlock's name arose again. We were sitting on the couch with the last of the wine and a pack of cards, which Greg had also brought. We'd just finished a game of Rummy when Lestrade pulled an envelope out of his pocket and looked pensively down at it. I didn't pay much attention to it initially, shuffling the cards and dealing out another hand of Rummy, but after a moment Greg held it out for me to take. I took it, frowning inquisitively at him. He rubbed a hand across his jaw.

"I found that lying around the flat the other day," he said. I opened the envelope- it wasn't sealed- and pulled out a small stack of papers.

"I caught them when he was- deep in thought," Lestrade explained with a chuckle.

They were photos, photos of Sherlock. Mostly profiles, all candid, some with objects in the foreground that suggested that the photographer had been hiding behind something when the pictures were taken. I sucked in a deep breath and held it.

The only pictures I had of Sherlock were from the tabloids, folded papers stacked at the very back of the file cabinet next to my desk. Those pictures were either of Sherlock hiding his face, trying to avoid the cameras, or of him smiling forcedly, uncomfortable and awkward.

These photos were different. They showed Sherlock as I remembered him, brow furrowed slightly in concentration, gaze focused on something invisible to all but him. His long profile, the square chin and sharp, slanting cheekbones, piercing grey-blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. This was Sherlock in his element, Sherlock on a case, the Sherlock that I'd known and loved.

After one short month, seeing his face was a shock greater than I could have imagined. I flipped through the photos- there were nine of them- several times without stopping. Lestrade looked slightly concerned, but he didn't interrupt. After a few minutes I stopped, squared off the small stack, slipped it back into the envelope. I cradled the parcel gently in my hands like the treasure it was.

I felt as though Greg had given me some tiny piece of Sherlock back, a tiny piece that I could save for as long as I lived. A tiny piece that brought into stark light the weight and permanence of my loss.

I took a deep, shaky breath. "Thank you, Greg," I said in a low, unsteady voice.

He inclined his head. "Of course," he said quietly.

There was a moments pause, then he looked up and smiled. "Should I deal?"

I nodded and let him take the cards.


	5. Chapter 5

I copied the photos and kept a copy of my favorite with me, in the pocket of whatever coat I wore. It seemed silly and sentimental, but it made me feel somehow stronger, carrying a bit of him wherever I went, and I never told or showed anyone, even Lestrade.

Lestrade had begun to chivvy me into getting back out into the employment and romance markets. I had been lagging- I harbored a strange dread of going back out and having to communicate with strangers- but I knew he was right. Greg had gone so far as to suggest that I could complete simple training and join the Yard; after all, I had the right background for it from my service. But that seemed too close to home, a painful reminder of what had been.

I opted instead for an interview at St. Bartholomew's. As long as I entered the same way every day and kept out of the morgue, I reasoned, I could almost avoid the memories.

I was able to secure a position there with relative ease. I had done my time there in previous years, built up a resume and even a reputation that I could rely on. The work was a bit mundane, but it paid well, and it got me out of the house and back into contact with the rest of the world, which I quickly grew used to again.

I met up with Greg Lestrade every Friday after work. I hadn't had a mate like him in years, and certainly not since I'd been in Afghanistan. Occasionally others joined us: Mrs. Hudson, a few times, Mike Stamford once or twice.

One evening when I arrived at Greg's flat, someone familiar that I hadn't seen in a long while opened the door. I stopped short when I saw her.

"Hello, John."

Her voice was just as I remembered it, timid and kind. I swallowed. I felt unreasonably guilty, remembering the way Sherlock had treated her. It was as if, now that he was gone, I had taken on responsibility for his social dysfunction and, in this case, inadvertent cruelty.

She put a hand on my arm, looking at me with concern. Everybody looked at me that way, these days. I took a deep breath through my nose, trying to clear my head.

"Molly, it's- it's good to see you," I managed.

Molly smiled. "Oh, it's good to see you too, John. It's been too long."

_It's been three months. A quarter of a year._ Sometimes it didn't feel like that long, as if it had been just a few days before that I was fighting my way through the mass of restraining arms toward Sherlock's still form. Sometimes it felt like it had been years ago.

Greg had come to stand beside Molly at the door, and now he took me by the arm and guided me to the sofa. I sat, mechanically. He sat beside me. Molly ducked into the kitchen, seeming to sense that I needed a minute to process. Greg picked up the bottle of wine that sat next to several glasses on the coffee table and poured a fresh glass, handing it to me as he took up his own.

"John," he said after a minute, "are you alright?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine," I asserted. _Close enough to the truth. I am fine, in one or two ways at least._ Greg sighed.

"Is it Molly?" he asked.

I took a sip of the wine. It was warm, soothing on my throat. _Just answer him truthfully, _I told myself._ He's asking because he cares._

"I don't know, it's just," I bit my lip. "Sherlock-" My voice was rougher than I would have hoped. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Sherlock was so unfair to Molly. I don't-" _I don't _what_?_ I swallowed. I didn't finish. I didn't know how to finish. I glanced up at Greg. He was looking thoughtfully at me.

"You know," he said after a minute, seeming to understand that I couldn't say more, "that was who he was." He took a sip of wine. "I think Molly understands that. She never speaks of him unkindly."

I appreciated Greg's frank reassurance, but at the same time there was something that made me uncomfortable about the way he said it. _That was who he was._ When he was alive, Sherlock's lack of social graces had been appalling and admonishable. Now that he was gone, we had to accept who he had been and move on. _I don't want to move on_.

Molly returned quickly with a tray of cheese and crackers, and I slowly relaxed as we snacked and drank wine and talked. Molly had changed, blossomed in Sherlock's absence. She didn't stumble through her sentences anymore; she had lost the anxious, fluttery manner she had always had. Or maybe she hadn't changed. Maybe I'd just never been around her enough without Sherlock to see who she really was.

It took several minutes after Molly returned from the kitchen for me to escape my mental torpor enough to wonder for the first time what Molly was doing over at Greg's in the first place.

"Er- are you two-" I didn't finish, but they seemed to understand. Greg blushed a little, and Molly gave a self-concious little laugh.

"We went out Sunday night for the first time," Molly said shyly.

Greg smiled in at her. "Yes, we did," he agreed, rather dreamily.

Molly and Greg were perfect for each other. The more I watched them, the more I understood that. They seemed to be head-over-heels for one another, and soon Molly was joining us every other Friday evening. She was cautious of stepping on our friendship, offering to stay away on Friday nights in general, but I knew Greg was too infatuated to be happy with that arrangement. Besides, Molly was becoming a good friend of mine herself.

But even as the months passed and the death of my best friend became easier to think about and talk about, Molly and I never discussed Sherlock. Greg and I did, almost freely. Sherlock's name would come up in frequently casual conversation. We spoke of him fondly and at times disparagingly, and slowly it started to hurt less.

If Greg or I mentioned Sherlock around Molly, though, she would either excuse herself or change the subject. She did this so subtly that for a long time I didn't even realize it, but when I did, and begun testing it, I found that she never participated in any sort of discussion or mention of him. She could have been suffering from some measure of trauma as a result of his suicide, but I found it hard to believe that something like that would be affecting _Molly_ more than _me_.

So one Friday evening when Greg went to the store and left Molly and I on our own, I decided to confront her about it. We were sitting shelling peas and chatting, and I couldn't think of an appropriate way to ease Sherlock into the conversation, so I decided to just plunge in.

"Could I talk to you about Sherlock?" I asked.

If I hadn't been watching carefully, I wouldn't have noticed the way her fingers slipped momentarily on the pea she was holding. She righted them and shelled it quickly, then dropped the empty husk into the bowl with the others and stood.

"Just a moment," she said, beginning to walk briskly from the room.

"No, Molly, wait!" I called out. She stopped, but didn't turn around. "Molly," I started carefully, "why do you always avoid talking about him?"

She turned, at that. For once, I couldn't read the expression on her face. "I- I don't avoid talking about him." Her tone suggested a defiance that her stammering belied.

"Yes, you do," I argued. "Molly, come back and sit."

She did, slowly, avoiding my gaze.

"Did something happen?" I asked. Then, "did something happen between you two?" It seemed almost too impossible to even be worth mentioning, but I couldn't think what else could have been causing her strange behavior.

Molly shook her head uncertainly, still not looking at me.

"Molly," I said after a minute, "I- I'm so sorry for the way he- the way he always treated you. I shouldn't have-"

"No, John," she said, looking at me now. Her expression was oddly distressed. "No, I- John, you mustn't feel guilty for-" She stopped. She seemed to be entreating me for something with her gaze, but I couldn't figure out what it could be. I waited to see if she would continue and, to my slight surprise, eventually she did.

"That night before Sherlock- well, morning, I suppose, I- well, we- er- we talked."

She was back to not looking at me, except for little furtive glances. She'd assumed that same restive, nervous demeanor that I hadn't seen in months. _He has that effect on her even from beyond the grave._

"What did you talk about?" I prompted after a moment's silence.

She looked up and gave me a small smile. "He was kind to me," she said abstractedly.

I took a deep breath. "Sherlock. Was _kind._ To _you._" She nodded earnestly. I felt rather bewildered by the whole situation. Molly's undecipherable expressions and vacillation between confidence and timidity was baffling enough, but what she was saying... Kind. I had seen concern for others, at times, perhaps even a sort of caring, but _kindness_? Kindness implied empathy.

"How?" I asked.

Molly looked thoughtful, as if she were carefully considering something. After a moment she began to speak, slowly and deliberately.

"He told me that he'd always trusted me, and that I was important to him, even if he didn't always act like it," she said.

_He told me he was too busy to go see Mrs. Hudson when she was dying._ Though, of course, that had been a setup, Sherlock's setup; to get me far away enough that I couldn't stop him.

"_Why_, though?" I said it thoughtlessly, not realizing how it might sound.

"Does it really matter?" Molly asked sharply. She began shelling peas again, in an efficient, end-of-conversation sort of way.

I shook my head. "No, Molly, it doesn't. I'm sorry."

And that was the end of that, though she hadn't really answered my initial question, and I didn't stop wondering about it.


End file.
